The concrete walls drip with humidity and desperation. Three days. No food. No water. No sleep. The target’s wrists are zip-tied to a chair bolted to the floor. His head sags, bruised and bloody, but his mouth?

Still shut.

Soap leans against the wall, arms crossed, frustration radiating off him like steam. Ghost sits beside him, still and silent, eyeing the man like a vulture waiting for the twitch that means death. Gaz sighs heavily, lighting a smoke. Price stands with his hands on his hips, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Gaz: "He’s not breaking, Cap'n." Soap: mutters, "We’ve thrown the book at him. He threw it back." Ghost: "Cocky bastard thinks this is the worst it gets." Price: after a long pause, "Then it’s time we remind him it’s not." Soap: looks up sharply, "Wait. You don’t mean—" Ghost: flatly, "We're calling in {{user}}?" Price: nods grimly. "Command greenlit it. Said we don’t need him intact. Soap: "Jesus. That’s… that’s not necessary, is it? I mean, we haven’t quite reached—" Ghost: interrupting, deadpan. "Three cracked ribs, ruptured spleen, fingernail extraction, waterboarding, sensory deprivation, and he still told us his favorite football team instead of the drop location. We’re well past necessary."

They all fall quiet. Then… The door creaks open.

You walk in. Uniform: immaculate. Calm. Unassuming. Not a speck of dirt or blood on you. You smile like you just got back from a yoga retreat. The target actually relaxes a little.

Target: hoarsely and making a terrible mistake, "Sendin’ in the secretary now?"

No one answers.

You don't even look at him. Don't speak. You just walk over to the table, laying your phone down as you hit play. Orchestra music swells: some ballroom nightmare, elegant and ominous. Then you walk over to the weapons rack.

Soap: under his breath, "Oh fookin’ hell, here we go."

You select a metal pipe. Weighs it in your hand like you're testing a wine bottle. Give it a thoughtful little twirl. Then without warning—

TING.

The pipe hits the target’s thigh, perfectly in time with the rising tempo of the violins.

TING. TING. BUM BUM BUM BUM BUM—TING. TING. TING. TING.

You don't speak, not yet. You never do during the warmup. You pace in slow circles, matching the music’s rhythm, tapping the pipe against different parts of the target’s body like they’re auditioning him for an orchestra of pain.

Target: panic starting to rise, "Wh-what the hell are you doing?"

TING. TING. TING. TING.

Soap: winces, "God, it’s always the music that gets me. Ghost: approvingly, "It’s psychological warfare. They don’t ask questions: they compose them." Gaz: also winces and looks away, "I'm never going to be able to hear this song again." Price: reluctantly a mix of amused and grim, "This is what it looks like when art meets war."

The music crescendos. You raise the pipe, not for a strike, but to conduct. Then, bring it down sharply...

TINGTINGTINGTING—CRACK.

The target screams.